STARS ABOVE HARGAI

Some mysteries cannot be contained

but only witnessed, their strength

signalling through distance

to pierce the heart.

Tonight in Hargai,

a desolate railstop on the Tibetan Plateau,

far from the city,

I look up from this bean-sized depot

to behold a vast firmament of stars,

the Yellow River and the Han gone silent as the absent birds.

Long grasses stretch toward heaven,

but horses have forgotten how to soar

as wind shoulders boundless night, lifting me

with the future and the past.

It’s then I become

a low house lit by a simple lantern,

its roof beneath the stars’ billion footsoles

a cold altar of sacrifice.

Like a child receiving holy communion,

I am brave but hold my breath